


A Little Longer

by faorism



Series: Indexed Revolutions [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology & Adaptations - All Media Types, Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a law is passed, celebrations are had, and yes will never be spoken aloud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Longer

**Author's Note:**

> Featuring Senator!Arthur and Progressive Activist!Merlin. No party alignments are identified, and there is nothing said that should be too politically controversial. Written for LJ's merlinxarthur's fanfiction challenge [02] (prompt: against a wall).

The car ride over had been anything but silent: there was an infectious energy resounding in Leon's fingers tapping along to an improvisation section of a bluegrass/country favorite, and he and Arthur spoke with a sort of stunned enthusiasm that neither man was familiar with. They rambled on about inconsequential things like how the Cubs had no chance of beating the Yankees in the last game of the season (Leon disagreed vehemently, but that was only out of hometown pride and not at all set in reality) and how the food joint a short drive away from the Capitol complex must have gotten a new cook (the burgers they had sent for for lunch had been dry and the fries too salty). Leon complained about having a long distance relationship with _the mother of his children_ because of work. Arthur tried to muse on the fact that Merlin _still_ hadn't replaced the ugly peach counter top in the kitchen, but he found that Merlin's name ashed his tongue, so instead he whined about Morgana like any good (step-)brother would do.

It was just a normal conversation between two guys, but something profound and irrefutable weighed heavily on Arthur's mind—like what said here was something important, something he needed to remember in minute detail for later. He wanted to blame his mood on the atmospheric affects that old Western swing had on him—on now was [_Stay All Night_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DeN8yFmL5iA), and the melody always had a way of playing with his nostalgic side—but Arthur knew better than that. The urgency he felt was purely residual; the symptom of a long, long day... and yet Arthur and Leon kept at it: they waxed on about the ridiculously fancy aglets on Leon's new shoes and how Senator Valiant was, in fact, Arthur's mortal enemy on the Floor ("I swear, Leon, he purposely votes against me on _every single bill_ out of pure spite"). They talked and talked, and at times it felt like they were talking to simply fill up space—as if to stop would end the spell they've built sometime between Leon putting his keys in the ignition and Arthur strapping in his seatbelt.

Perhaps taking a few seconds to think about their day's accomplishment might had ended it... perhaps. Either way, they weren't willing to find out. Nothing and everything was brought up just to keep the conversation going and as Arthur started listing all the misdeeds Valiant had perpetrated for the third time that ride, Leon made a left onto Arthur's street. Arthur paused halfway through a sentence which Leon nimbly took up with a simple: "That's Lance's car, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Arthur offered noncommittally. "He and Gwen probably came over to celebrate. Guess that means you can come on in if you have time." He picked up his previous thread of conversation as Leon parked a house down and they made their way into the quaint brownstone Merlin spent three months house hunting and seven trips from New York to DC to find.

The two men hadn't had time to walk through the front door before they heard something of a cheer and a screeching "We've celebratory alcohol!" from the kitchen. (Arthur nearly cringed at the dripping pretentiousness of the voice: of course _Morgana_ hitched a ride with the Lott's. Of course.) As Leon rubbed his hands together, taking long steps toward the source of the horrendous shout, Arthur dropped his keys onto the table beside the door. And, without thinking, he reached for keys next to his and slipped them into the pocket of an unselfconsciously effeminate cardigan hanging on the coat rack. The action was so routine that it would have normally gone unnoticed, but now Arthur stopped short. It really was the day messing with him. After all, Merlin always, always forgot his keys, but never went without his flavor-of-the-month outerwear (September saw Merlin in a dewy midnight blue cotton-blend with something akin to a floral pattern along the cuffs; a style popular amongst hipsters back in the City, or so Merlin claimed), so it was natural that Arthur do this for Merlin. Natural and...

"Arthur! Booze. Come, now!"

"Stop your monosyllabic hollering, woman," Arthur called as he made the short trek to the back room, nudging one of Merlin's shoes to the side of the hall.

"Arthur! what would your constituents say if they heard you say such awful, cruel things?"

"They would..." Arthur's immeasurably clever response died on his lips upon entering the kitchen. "Would..." His eyes first fell on the two open bottles (one empty, one started) of what he took to be Merlot poised on the counter island. Then his vision expanded to Morgana on the counter top, her feet hooked on the top rungs of a stool; Leon, two clean glasses in his hand; Gwen on a chair with Lance precariously half-leaning against, half-sitting on her lap, both with tipsy grins and laziness in their limbs. And... and Merlin—in a button-up, wearing the lucky tie Arthur couldn't find for the past week—and, oh _Mer_lin.

A gentle "Arthur" came from Gwen and Arthur turned to her. Her hair had slipped from her ponytail in just the way that stripped her of the fierceness she played up as an impassioned lawyer. He had discounted her when they first met as just-another-soul-eating-lawyer but now... now what he saw was just Gwen... and just Lance with her... just Morgana on the counter, and Leon reaching for the wine, and _Merlin_...

The room had all the comfortable air of one of a hundred other nights they all were in the same city and found the time to spend with each other. Seeing them all now, a patchwork of professions and home states and personalities, staring at him with jovial expressions on _this_ day... made his throat close up in a way he would never admit to. All he could say in response was: "We did it."

Someone sighed a little "oh" (it had an accent to it, must have been Merlin), one that was reflected in the minds of everyone in the room. Arthur nodded—somewhat dizzy—and laughed, "We actually did it."

And... and not much made sense after that. (Lance promised Arthur later that Arthur didn't cry—not even a little bit, man—but... then again, Lance said he hadn't either and Arthur could have sworn... At least they both agreed that there were some very manly tears running down Leon's cheek that night.) The enthusiasm he had felt in the car burst with the end of his declaration: there was pride and awe and so, so much going on in his mind that Arthur felt... light. Free. Free enough to—as cheers and laughs and unintelligible congratulations and wine glasses clinking against each other filled the kitchen—think touching his (step-)sister was any sort of a good idea.

For once she let herself be manhandled as Arthur swept her up into his arms and twirled her around. Morgana scrunched up her nose as if to dissuade Arthur from daring to dance with her; but when Arthur moved away, she quickly hugged his neck like she hadn't done since they were children. She squeezed him and he buried his nose in her hair and she sang a disturbing series of sentiments into his ear (it was something about "being proud" and "he's lucky to have you" and "don't fuck it up"; there might have been a death threat or two—one can never tell with Morgana). By that time, Lance was standing, clapping a simple beat as Merlin and Gwen clumsily waltzed in a circle. At least three people were talking at once; Arthur couldn't make heads or tails out of what was being said; and whenever he looked Merlin's way he either froze or slid over his partner without a second thought, but it was alright. Really, it was. Because he felt...

Euphoric.

Yes: they were all being silly and embarrassing and completely childish, but right then, as more wine was poured and partners were switched (Arthur with Lance, Morgana with Gwen, Leon standing stiffly as Merlin tried to get him to do _something_), it made perfect sense.

Silly, silly perfect sense.

Even when they began to wind down, slinking against each other and nursing their glasses (at some point, a third bottle had been uncorked), everything was _right_. They won.

Even when his four guests decided to crash in the spare rooms for the night—their footsteps up the stairs creaking loudly—any annoyance Arthur should have felt was tempered by the fact that they fucking won.

Fuck. _Merlin_...

Arthur must have whispered that thought aloud, because his partner looked up from the glass he had been rinsing (Merlin didn't soap the damn thing, of course; he was just running it under water so the wine didn't stain. Actually washing the dishes was _Arthur's_ job). Even with his sleeves pushed up, Merlin managed to get the cuffs wet. His cheeks were drunkflushed as well, his goofy smile just a bit goofier. And in combination with the haphazard way his shirt tucked into his pants and the bit of dish soap Merlin somehow managed to get in his nest of hair, he had the general composition of someone absolutely ridiculous and clumsy. He looked every bit the man Arthur's campaigners feared: the wild child, the overly casual plebeian, the Reason he might lose that or so election; but there was one redeeming quality to the mess that was Merlin: he was absolutely endearing in a familiar, I've-tried-to-tone-down-your-crazy-I've-tried-and-failed-You-just-won't-change-and-I-hope-you-never-do-fuck-pleasedon'teverfuckingchange kind of way. Arthur saw that familiarity in the way Merlin raised an eyebrow at the same time he scowled, and Arthur felt his heart clench in his chest. Dazed, he opened his mouth to comment on just how much Merlin meant to him... but instead blurted:

"That's my tie, Merlin. I was looking for that everywhere. And... you have my tie."

Merlin smiled arrogantly, as if he knew that wasn't what Arthur meant to say. "I've been wearing it under my shirt everyday. I'm far luckier than you, so I estimated a 25.3 percent increase in overall luckhood (...luckdom—no, definitely luckhood) if I was the one wearing it."

"That makes no sense, and it's 'luck,' Merlin. That's what the word you're looking for."

"No." Merlin set down the glass and turned off the water, wiping his hands on his slacks. He padded over to Arthur's stool. His knees innocently sliding against Arthur's, he threaded a hand through Arthur's hair with the brashness of an affectionate wino. Arthur's impulses said to fight against the attention and call Merlin out on his intoxication, but instead Arthur's hands found Merlin's hips, drawing him in. Merlin hmm-ed, pleased, reading the off mood Arthur was in for all that it was. "'Luckhood' is as real a word as I can bloody make it be. And actually, for all you know it could be one of the most vital bits of British vocabulary ever spoken."

"Merlin, you've been in the States for half your life. The only reason you even have an accent is that you buy audiobooks with Brits reading them. I swear—" Snorting, Merlin threw his hands over Arthur's mouth, hushing him and declaring that that knowledge was classified and should anyone find out, Merlin would know who let it leak and then he would have to read up on demonology to summon a horrible monster that always ate the left sock of a pair so he could let it ravage Arthur's drawers.

All in all, it was a halfhearted effort, so Arthur's retaliation—pulling on the tie that Merlin _stole_ from him—reflected that. Merlin being the twit he was misinterpreted the action, parting his fingers just as he leaned down to press a kiss onto Arthur's lips. He ended the kiss after a moment but he kept his forehead against Arthur's.

They stayed like that for a drawn-out beat: even Arthur's wayward "I want my tie back" was not enough to disrupt the balance of the scene. Merlin's self-deprecating grin did not make matters any easier: it was so obvious he knew what Arthur felt; felt what Arthur couldn't stifle from his thoughts. It was _there_ hovering between them. It was heavy—a vow—a fulfilled promise that they both thought was impossible—_wewonwewonwewon_. He wanted to... He really, really wanted to... He had planned this out for weeks—months and years... He had prepared a dozen different speeches written on about one hundred index cards for _this_; but none of his drafts remotely fit the moment. _This_ moment, _the_ moment in which Merlin actually abandoned his omnipresent neckerchief for a lucky tie because he wanted this just as badly as his partner. In which they had a household of their closest friends who knew just what this day meant for Arthur and Merlin. In which there was Merlin and Arthur, alone in their kitchen of all places—a picturesque vision of the very domesticity they never seemed to have and never really needed to be happy.

Just... just Arthur and Merlin. Merlin and Arthur and MerlinandArthurandMerlinandAr...

(Today, a bill was passed. A bill Arthur had introduced to the Floor.

Today... five states—the _final_ five states—were made to accept marriage for all that it was: man and woman, and woman and woman, and man and man, and...

And Merlin had once pushed his hands through Arthur's hair as he knelt in front of Merlin. "I'm so, so sorry, Arthur. Please understand me when I say I _can't_. Not now," he had said. "Not when I know there are so many whose love still isn't acknowledged simply based on which state they live in. Please, Arthur. Please. I... I cannot advocate for them knowing I couldn't make the same sacrifice they are forced into. I'm sorry, but I need you to"—and now... if Arthur asked... if Merlin asked...)

Arthur moaned a drained "moron" that sounded more like "Merlin," and stood. The tension he felt in the car returned, but he welcomed it openly as he yanked the tie down so that Merlin's mouth crashed into his. The kiss was sweet but by no means chaste, and soon enough Arthur dragged Merlin to a wall. Merlin didn't hesitate as he pushed Arthur against it, his supple weight loaded onto Arthur for him to support. Distantly, Arthur remembered that he had guests half-asleep one floor up. He immediately decided to suppress this fact with the reasoning that they should have known better than to stay over on a night like this. ...Not that he really cared about something as fickle as decency with Merlin's hands working on removing both their shirts.

"Uh... I fucking lo—"

Merlin didn't wait, sliding his tongue against the apex of Arthur's lips until Arthur stuttered a gasp. Urgency fought against him: ordering him to step back and talk—they needed to talk... they really, really needed to talk. But they were both shirtless with Arthur's shoes kicked off: pure, unadulterated entropy encouraged him to just go on and fuck it all. He settled for sighing around the invading warmth, lazily licking the underside of Merlin's tongue as it traced the backs of Arthur's teeth. The sensation was pleasant and filthy at once, and Arthur pulled the tie again and again and again, directing Merlin left and right and down, searching for and finding victory in the kiss.

Their pants were off before they broke for air. Merlin breathed heavier than Arthur, no doubt because of how tight his tie had become. Arthur clutched at it, thumb running along the expensive fabric in circles. He wanted to make a joke about how surprised he was that Merlin hadn't soiled the beloved tie; he really wanted to. But... Merlin laughed in that insignificant way of his, and he laid kiss after kiss across Arthur's nose—brow—cheek—temple. Then his palms wandered up Arthur's chest, slowing down until they stopped just below Arthur's shoulders. It might have seemed like a serendipitous position, but Arthur knew better: his heart beat clandestinely against Merlin's wrist—each thump a sign of validation; each thump a yes—yes—_fuck_—_yes_. Figures Merlin would be so sentimental now when normally they shied away from this kind of thing... and yet when Merlin shyly went to move his hands away, Arthur caught his arms—understanding the need and needing it himself.

Eyes half-lidded, he glanced up and saw happiness. In Merlin's goofy smile... In Merlin's distinct cheekbones... in Merlin... Merlin... MerlinMerlinMerlin...

The next kiss didn't start and end. It simply happened. One moment Merlin's mouth hovered over Arthur's, the next they were together, as were their groins: their erections hardening against one another through their boxers. And then things really stopped making any semblance of sense.

It all became a fury of touches and grinding; of distant colors and Merlin's breath burning Arthur's lips.

Of groans that were silted as to not wake anyone, and the loud "fuck!" that slipped one too many times.

Of kisses that simply happened.

Of Merlin whimpering sweet somethings into Arthur's ear as they came.

And, of course: of Arthur and Merlin and ArthurandMerlinandArthurandmerlinandarthurandmerlinan—

("I still want my tie back."

"Oh my fucking... Arthur, we were having a _moment_! I cannot believe you just... All that build-up, all that sex—only to end on that anticlimactic note? Do you realize that when we look back on this moment when we're old and decrepit, we'll have to remember the fact that you ruined our epic post-coital bliss because of a bit of fabric? Such an unromantic cad!"

"...So that means you say—"

"Shut up. I'm not talking to you ever again.")


End file.
